


Dirty Dancing

by CarrKicksDoor



Category: NCIS: Los Angeles
Genre: F/M, Romance, Stripping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-19
Updated: 2013-03-19
Packaged: 2017-12-05 19:01:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/726817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CarrKicksDoor/pseuds/CarrKicksDoor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Nope.  If I convince you, Kensi Blye, that I, Marty Deeks, once worked as an exotic dancer, then you—“ the thought that springs into his head is brilliant “—have to give me a lap dance.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dirty Dancing

**Author's Note:**

> After Deeks' confession that he stripped for money in law school and then the whole Densi goodness that was "Wanted," I looked for the deluge of new Kensi/Deeks fic. It has yet to appear, so I decided to write it myself. So, then this happened. My destruction of Western Civilization is now 2% complete.

It’s always his big mouth that gets him in trouble—it was part of the reason he wanted to be a lawyer, so his big mouth might actually start working for him instead of working against him, but Deeks can only seem to switch on the filter between his brain and his mouth when he’s working.  Otherwise, he would have recognized that Kensi’s bounty hunter fantasy had come from the diary/memoir thing she’d left on her desk and not from something she’d told him, and kept his mouth shut.

But no, his big mouth got him in trouble again, and because he is, all puns aside, a pretty open book, he’d had to think hard for to tell her something about himself she didn’t know.  There is plenty she still doesn’t know, plenty he doesn’t talk about, but they don’t go that deep.  They both have darkness in their pasts, and they don’t bring it up unless they have to, unless they’re being shot at from the shadows of that darkness.  So he had to go for something else, and his big mouth decided that revealing his past working at The Boom Boom Room had enough of the embarrassing and more than enough of the titillating to spring on Kensi.

Oh, that plan had backfired so very, very badly.

Okay, not that badly.  He’d had her hand in his front pocket when she stuffed a dollar bill in it (though he deserved at least a five), and then she’d slapped his ass.  And she hadn’t told Sam and Callen yet, though the word yet was key there, because he knew that this little tidbit was going to end up blurted out in the middle of the bullpen the next time the guys all ganged up on her.  And he was fortunate in that there weren’t likely to be many—if any—pictures on the internet of those days, and he had, at least, kept his stage name to himself.  And in the furor of finishing the case, she’d left him alone.  Then the whole thing with Sam and Michelle and Snyder and Sabatino happened, and things had gotten a little too close, a little too intimate, and they’d backed off from each other, the way they always did.

He should have realized that eventually, she would up at his place with beer and a movie, and the movie would be _Magic Mike_. “What?” she asks, grinning. “You don’t want to watch a movie about a male stripper making good, Magic Marty?”

“I hate you so much right now,” he says, not even bothering to stand on ceremony and simply grabbing one of the bottles out of the carton and twisting the top off before letting her in.

“You realize I’m never letting this go, right?” she says, tossing the movie to one side, and he lets out half a sigh of relief because if he’s lucky, he might get through this evening without actually having to watch Channing Tatum shake his ass.

“I said I was sorry!” he protests again.  Monty even gives a whine to punctuate his sincerity, because Monty is the only wingman he needs, really.

Kensi toes her boots off before grabbing a beer of her own and sprawling out on his sofa.  “Whatever.”  The way she’s eyeing him has nothing good written all over it.  “See, I think you were lying anyway.”

He nearly chokes on his beer.  “I’m sorry, what?”

“You are lying about being a stripper,” she says.  “You were just trying to get out of trouble with me, and went for something embarrassing, and you didn’t actually do any stripping.”

“Really?” he says, letting himself grin, because there are two ways this could go.  There’s the easy way to prove her wrong—he takes her over towards campus to The Boom Boom Room and shows her the picture that’s still on the wall—and there’s the fun way, and it’s up to her which way they go, but either way, he’s going to show her up and win.  “First of all, I was not a stripper.  I was an exotic dancer.  There’s an important distinction there.”

“Does that distinction involve clothes?” Kensi asks.

He ignores her.  “And just how did your keen detective mind deduce that I’m lying about my sordid past anyway?”

“I,” she says, just slightly exaggerating the word, “have seen you dance.”

Oh, she’s in for such a surprise. “Oh, you have?”

“You could barely keep from stepping on my feet when Hetty was trying to teach us how to waltz,” she said.

“The Viennese waltz and exotic dancing are two very different things,” he protests, taking another long swallow of his beer.

“And you don’t dance when we go out to a club,” she says. “You do that thing where you stand there and shuffle your feet and maybe sway your hips a little bit.  You have no moves, Deeks.  And I have been actively looking for evidence and haven’t found any.  You just told me you were an ‘exotic dancer’ to get me off your back about reading my private writing.”

“You are so wrong,” he says, smirking, partly because she is wrong and partly because she’s been looking for pictures of him naked.  “You are so wrong, I can’t even begin to tell you how wrong you are.”

The words he’s been waiting for slip out of her mouth like he’d planted them there himself.  “Prove it.”

“Not if I don’t get something out of the deal,” he says, taking another swallow of the beer.  “You can believe me or not, but I fulfilled my half of the bargain, Kens.”

“I bet you that you can’t prove it,” she says smugly.  “Because it’s not true.”

He is a bad, bad man.  “All right.”  He holds up one finger to keep her from speaking.  “But like I said, I get something out of this.”

“Other than all my secrets that you’ve already read?” she asks tartly, and he winces inwardly, but keeps going.

“Nope.  If I convince you, Kensi Blye, that I, Marty Deeks, once worked as an exotic dancer, then you—“ the thought that springs into his head is brilliant “—have to give me a lap dance.”

Her eyebrows shoot straight up into her hairline.  “Oh, really.  And when you completely and utterly fail to convince me that you have any game whatsoever?”

“I’ll do your laundry for a month again,” he says. 

He can see the thoughts in her head as she weighs the likelihood of him following through versus a month of not having to do her own laundry.  “No,” Kensi says fixing him with a stare.  “My memoir—I’m sure you noticed—it’s responses to journal prompts.  I have this book that gives ideas for writing about your life, and I write about those, since my day to day life is kind of classified and not really journal friendly.  If I win, you take the book and you have to write your own _truthful_ memoir entries for a month.  And I get to read them.”

Suddenly, he’s reconsidering making a trip to The Boom Boom Room his first plan so he can win without any doubt, but twisting up his face, he agrees.  It can always be the backup.  “Give me a couple of minutes.  I’ll be back.”

“Take your time,” she says, slipping off her shoes and making herself comfortable on the couch.  “You’ve got all evening to fail, Deeks.”

“Shut up, Kensi,” he says, good naturedly.  “And move the coffee table.”                     

 

 

She does as he asks, with enough trepidation that while he’s gone, she goes and pulls out the bottle of tequila he keeps over the fridge and two glasses, because if she’s wrong, this is going to get so very awkward so very fast.  Monty looks at her pleadingly, and she gives him a treat from the canister on the counter, and he happily takes it over to his bed in the kitchen and settles down.  She pours herself a shot of the tequila and tosses it back, wincing as it burns, but comes back into the living room, and digs out the cash she has in her wallet, all twenty-eight dollars of it, because waving it at him ought to help her laugh this off.

The overhead light is off, the lamp in the corner giving a diffuse glow to the room, and she’s starting to get that antsy feeling she gets in the pit of her stomach right before she goes into a firefight.  She opens her mouth to tell him that it’s okay.  They can call this bet off, right?

Only to find that her words stop dead in her throat as her partner appears in the living room in his LAPD uniform.  He’s taken the time to wet his hair and slick it back under the hat, and he’s got on sunglasses and a smile that promises things so wicked her mouth immediately goes dry.  He looks good—would anyway, but the fact that all this is getting ready to come off only makes this so much worse.

“The important thing to remember about stripping,” he says, plugging his phone into the iPod dock and taking advantage of her gaping silence, “is that women like to imagine good guys doing naughty things.”  He pulls one of the kitchen chairs from the table near the window and puts in the middle of the space she’s cleared in the floor, dragging her into it before she has time to protest.  “In private parties, though, you tailor the costume.  Now, I don’t have a Marine uniform hanging around, so this will have to do.”

He turns around and hits play, shaking his ass just a bit.  Kensi doesn’t recognize the music, but that’s really not important, because he’s just taken off the sunglasses with a smirk and is twirling them about by the earpiece.  “Props are important too, Kens,” he says, his voice just loud enough to be heard over the music.  “See, stripping is less about the naked and more about the anticipation.  But the only gun I’ve got is my service piece, and handcuffs are never a good idea without a safe word.”  His hips are starting to move with the music, and already, Kensi feels like she’s going to go up in flames, because what he’s doing with those sunglasses now is _filthy_.  “It’s too bad, though.  You should see what I can do with a fake Glock.”

The hat goes flying off his head toward her like a frisbee, and she swallows hard as he drops the sunglasses and begins to loosen his tie.  He strips it off his neck, wrapping one end around his hand as he approaches her.  He pulls it around the back of her neck, letting the fabric gently rub against the nape, and that’s when Kensi figures out that this isn’t so much stripping as it is a very deliberate method of seduction.

He drops the tie, and she realizes that his eyes aren’t leaving her face as he unbuttons the navy blue shirt, because he’s enjoying this.  He wants to see what he’s doing to her, wants to see the evidence of her arousal.   He pulls the shirt off all at once, revealing a white t-shirt that’s much too tight and outlines his shoulders and pecs far too well, and all the while, his hips never stop moving.  “Little help here?” he asks, tugging at his shirt, and she swallows hard before letting herself reach out to un-tuck the t-shirt, her fingers barely brushing against the skin of his abdomen.  He pulls the shirt off, very slowly, and it musses up his hair, just a little, as he does.  For only a second, his gaze breaks from her face, but it’s enough that she can take one quick look down his body to discover that she’s not the only one starting to get excited by this.

His belt comes next, and she curses herself for the intake of breath she can’t stop when the leather slides free.  He snaps the leather at her with a grin before casting it aside.  “Generally speaking, pants at the strip club come with snaps so you can just rip them off,” he says as he toes his shoes off and kicks them aside too, his fingers busy with the button and zipper to his uniform pants.  “Given that this is already so far outside of LAPD regulations, that it would get even me fired, I won’t go ripping anything.”

And suddenly, he turns around, the pants are down, and she’s confronted with his very nice ass in a very tight pair of black boxer briefs.  “Sorry, I don’t keep a g-string anymore,” he says, shaking his ass at her, and she really, really doesn’t care about a g-string, because he’s turned back around and gotten down on his knees in front of her, his hand blatantly rubbing against himself and it’s the hottest thing she has ever seen until he picks up the ends of the tie that he’d left draped around her neck, pulling her toward him.

She’s an inch from his face, her lips almost ready to taste him, when the music stops and so does he.  One eyebrow quirks up the way it always does when he teases her, despite the fact that he’s breathing nearly as hard as she is and she can see the bulge in his boxers, and he asks, “Convinced?”

Kensi blinks for a moment, then folds up the wad of cash she has in her hand and tucks it into the waistband of his underwear.  “Yeah,” she says, hating the way she sounds almost out of breath.  “Convinced.”

He grins as he gets up off the floor and flops down beside her on the couch, completely uncaring that he’s almost naked and has half a hard on.   He doesn’t bother pouring himself a shot of the tequila—just takes a swig out of the bottle.  “Your turn.”

She starts almost violently at that, but he just calmly looks at her, eyebrows raised and waiting, and she remembers the consequences of losing this particular bet.  But she’s not a welsher, and so gritting her teeth, she stands up.  She’s already had one shot of the booze to settle her nerves, so she doesn’t dare try for more in case she needs to make an immediate awkward exit from his apartment, but she has to be able to do this without turning red.

But she’s Kensi Blye, and she’s a born operator, and this is just another role to play, right?  Pulling the ponytail holder out of her hair, she runs her hands through it, mussing it up, and thanking the laundry and shower gods that she had on a matching pair of underwear and had remembered to shave her legs that morning.  She takes a moment to run through his Spotify, pulling up a track from her own playlists that’s dark and sultry with a deep beat before she turns around and fixes him with the most seductive look she can muster.

It wipes the laughing, playful look right off his face.   He’s watching her again with the same intensity that he had when he was dancing, and when she points to the chair in the middle of the room, he moves immediately, and she can see that his interest level has just gone way, way up, in the most phallic sense.

She stalks toward him in time with the beat of the music.  His button-up may not have had snaps, but hers does, and she rips it open in one move to display her tank top.  The plaid shirt flutters down to join his other clothes. 

Her props are built in, she thinks, taking her hands and squeezing her breasts together before running her hands down her torso to the hem of her tank.  It comes off over her head, revealing the black bra underneath, and she flings the tank at him with a sly smile.  He catches it and inhales.  “You’ve been at the range today.  I smell gunpowder,” he says, his voice an octave lower than usual.

“Got to watch out for us girls with guns,” she says, rolling her hips in his direction, before leaning over toward him and giving him an eyeful of her cleavage. “We’re dangerous.”

“You certainly are,” he murmurs, his eyes predictably sweeping down her form, but the look he gives her is so soft, so reverent, that she doesn’t even give another shake before standing back up and removing her jeans.

He’s seen her in bikinis before, and she’s not wearing any less now, but it feels different because it’s her lingerie and not a swimsuit. Still, his watchful eyes never leave her because at this moment, he’s allowed to look and fill his memory with this. 

She runs her hands over his thighs before settling herself in his lap, wrapping her arms around his neck.  “Kens,” he murmurs.

“Lap dance, remember?” she says, surprised to hear how sultry her own voice has gotten.  The music is still playing, and she’s still moving, making circles with her pelvis when his hands come down hard on her hips.

“Stop,” he chokes out.  She can already feel him hard as a rock against her, but now he’s got his eyes closed, and his head leaning back against the chair.  His heart is pounding so hard that she can feel that too.  “I—“

She’s never seen him at a loss for words before. It’s new for him, and she likes it, and more than that, she doesn’t want to stop.  The heat that spread through her watching him dance has taken over like a wildfire, spreading out through her veins until it’s overtaken her, and she is going to either burn up or die. 

She, like he, has a natural aversion to death.

She leans forward, pressing her lips to his, and she can feel his fingers tighten against her hipbones in shock before his arms wrap fully around her.  He begins to ravage her mouth, and she grinds down against him just to hear him groan.  “Kensi,” he mutters, barely able to stop to say her name.

Kensi pulls back, just enough, and she can see the sudden flash in his eyes when he thinks she’s going to run from this, a flash that turns to molten heat when she reaches around behind her to unclasp her bra.  She lets it fall to the floor, and after one visual sweep of her body that she’s sure he will say is absolutely necessary, he finally looks back up at her face, an implicit question in his expression because he’s still not quite sure he believes this is happening.

She leans close to him and whispers into his ear. “Teach me how to tango.”


End file.
